Two Seasons
by Dyslexic Angel
Summary: A series of SasuNaru double drabbles. He always seems so warm, but he shivers in the night...
1. Winter

He always seems so warm. Sure, with yellow hair and orange clothes, he does dress like fire-- right down to his flame-blue eyes. Sure his carefree grin is as bright as the summer sunshine. But for all of that, late at night he shivers. He pulls the tattered (well-loved) blanket tighter around him, and tries not to shiver. Even in the summer, there are times when he will clench his chaw to keep his teeth from chattering, and close his eyes (so tightly!) to keep the lonely tears from falling (keep from seeing the empty moonlight.) But some nights, _HE_ is here. Who would have thought alabaster could be so warm? Who would believe that eyes like thin winter ice (so cold. So fragile) could hold such gentleness? And so, deep in winter when the snow taps the window and the wind croons a half-familiar lullaby-- the boy does not shiver. He pulls closer to his winter-eyed lover, warmth branding into ice until neither cares where one ends and the other begins, and rests there. This should be so wrong, the boy thinks, but it also makes sense. Who wouldn't look for warmth in the snow?


	2. Strength

He can't afford to show too much strength. Even nightmares are nothing compared to the cold light of morning, and the eyes of the villagers, colder still. Not hurting—merely watching with a kind of terror mixed with hatred that seems to gather in his gut like a belly full of worms. He tries to shrug it off, but what if they _are_ right? He pushes it away, but the thought remains, uneasy. These people can order him killed, if they are afraid enough. Even the Hokage can be over-ruled, if enough of the village bands together. The nail that sticks up gets hammered down, so he doesn't ever dare be too strong. Even so, he can never be so weak as to look defenseless. Things that are defenseless get crushed. His teammates, his peers, look down on him. They scorn the foolish boy, not knowing his reasons. Not knowing how fast he heals, so they never know how badly he was really hurt. Not knowing the hatred he wakes up to every morning. Not noticing how the smile is just a little bit too bright, just a little too often. Not noticing the strain behind the merry mask.


	3. Nightmares

He used to have nightmares. Or were they memories, of his unwanted guest? Were the fires that fell like a pack of crimson wolves the demon inside, or were they merely a figment of his pained imagination? When he woke in the night, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat, it scarcely seamed to matter. It doesn't matter now, either, and he bites his lip to hold back the unmanly tears, even though he's alone. He wonders where his lover is, off to wander again in the lonely night. He wishes bitterly for those dark, cold eyes that hold fire only for him, even for that polished shell of frozen glass. More than that, he wishes for the soft touch on his cheek, the gruff voice telling him not to cry, to go back to sleep. That same voice, rough as few have ever heard it, not singing—chanting softly the old children's rhyme that both of them remember but neither of them admit to knowing. He wishes for that gentle hand weaving through his hair, and the brush of lips against his forehead. As his sits there wishing, someone knocks at the door. His pale lover smiles, and comes in.


	4. Autumn

The sky is the color of his eyes today, his lover says. He laughs, because his love was never meant to be the sort of romantic who should say that. A faint frown crosses a pale brow, before a gentle kiss smooths it away. The wind stirs in the leaves above them, and a few rain down in red and gold. He giggles as one catches in his lover's dark hair, reaching up to pull it out, running his fingers through the spiky mess. The pale boy gives him a rare smile, almost shy, and is rewarded by a gamine grin. Most of the world wouldn't know this grin from his usual smile, but the dark-haired boy can see the real joy, like pure water from a hidden spring, that flows from the blond. The wind toys with both their hair before ghosting down along the hill, returning once to bat at their hair before rushing across the sky. If you could see it, the wind would almost be smiling as the blond boy kisses his dark-eyed lover; if you could hear it, it would almost be singing, a love song far older than both boys put together.


	5. Stolen Kisses

The first time, it was an accident. A bitter glare, twisted by some mockery of fate into a sign of affection. He remembers wondering how so cold a person could have such warm lips. He remembers being frozen, unable to break the gentle, tiny contact. Their second kiss was not an accident, though it would have seemed that way. Even now he isn't sure that it wasn't a mistake. The dark-haired boy had gone away, to be calmed down, but he had gone with a mysterious half-smile playing across lips he now knew were soft and warm and slightly chapped. There third kiss could not have been mistaken for an accident. It was the pale boy's idea, stunning and shocking. It had been fierce and tender and stolen both their breath, and it had been followed by many others. They had kissed and bit and fought, hands in each other's hair, and pressed so tightly together that they could not have been separated. The teacher scolded them, hours later, when both came in covered in dirt and bites, with twigs in their hair. The two had shared the ghost of a smile, and no one suspected a thing.


	6. Blood

Dodge, block, leap, take the hit on arm instead of face, dodge break right... crimson eyes flash with the opposite of benevolence, a perfect match for the blood now spattered over all three men. The fox and his wolf are brave, but both marked; they share a glance of worry at each other's wounds, but there is no time for that. Dodge, block, leap, kick... desperately look for an opening. Two against one isn't fair, but not the way it seems. The rabid weasel grins, eyes flashing with power and madness in parallel streaks. The next attack is faster still and fiercer. Tan skin is marked again by a deep gash, blood spilling out to stain the fox's orange clothing just a little darker. His pale, dark-eyed lover looks up in concern, wolf protecting a pack mate, before another attack forces him to watch his own back. Metal clashes angrily with metal, biting sometimes into wood, and more rarely into flesh. Throughout it all there is no sound but ragged breathing and the occasional sick thunk. Pale blue eyes blink away blood, meeting for a moment the lesser red. Lovers confide the awful truth—wolf and fox are losing.


	7. Ice Tears

Dark eyes blink red, then back to black again. Long lashes flicker as the wolf blinks away blood, bones as strong as chicken noodle soup and all his power drained. The fox still crouches on a limb high above, strained and bleeding. Wolf closes his eyes for only a moment, then opens them again on hell. His blond lover is falling, blood streaming from a thousand cuts, unable even to scream. He hits the ground with a sickening thunk as the mad weasel shows his first real expression—a wicked mocking grin. Dark eyes fade to red with cold fury.

Pale skinned body lies before him, still wrapped in a torn inverted sky. The weasel's throat is ripped out, and the Wolf feels oddly cold. Who would have thought that all he fought and bled for could seem so meaningless? He turns away from the hollow husk, walking away without a sparing a glance backwards. He walks towards his blond fox, his golden angel of the summer, his only warmth. Then the ice prince, the coldest man in all the world, falls to his knees and weeps. He weeps tears of brittle ice, cold diamonds for his lost summer king.


End file.
